New One: In Orange Attitude
by Reboo
Summary: well, it has finally been continued, going not much further into what its like for one of the g-girls as a writer, fourth and fifth part up
1. Default Chapter

New one, In Orange Attitude  
By: Reboo  
email: rlw1985@hotmail.com or lngwp@oz.zzn.com  
  
A/N: The title has nothing to do with the story, which really classifies as nothingness to a point. The title came from my Notebook an orange attitude notebook to be exact, and new one is what I apply to the top of the page on which I am starting a new story from in my notebook Which is always kept on hand in pocket, for fear of someone reading it who shouldn't be.   
  
She shuffled in and sat down on her bed pulled the soft fluffy sheets around her, and turned off her lamp, that had been shedding a slight glow throughout her quaint bedroom. It was late, and she had had to tear herself away from the paperwork often required by her job. The computer screen had plagued her for long enough that day. Her body ached from having to sit in one chair for such a long position without movement. Ideas, thoughts, and emotions began to gnaw at her as soon as she let her tired head hit the pillow and had managed to have her eyes slide closed to catch some much needed sleep. She tossed in bed, rolling from one side to the other and back again, then laying flat on her back still not content. Her mind was keeping her from sleeping again, and it was making her irritable. Thoughts continuely flowed through her as they often did at night her pent up expressions from the day creeping into her evening thoughts, her subconcious, her dream world. They inhabited her being keeping her awake even when she did not wish it. Just laying there she could let her thoughts play out, whatever they might be, they could play themselves out and never make their way to paper or screen.  
  
Letting her thoughts lay their, seemed like a waste however. They would not remain dormant most likely and there was no guarantee that they would ever return again. She layed there in bed on her back, arms straight at her side, legs spread out straight as well all the while keeping her eyes closed. Lately she had been lax in her writing, and her lack of expression did have a habit of realing its nasty head at bad times, and she would snap. Maybe she needed this. Whenever she had been caught typing on the computer or writitng on paper whether at work or at home and someone was around if it had not been work related she had received something very close to a flame for it.   
  
Others seemed to believe there was no purpose in writing. They said it was only for records. How she yearned to prove them wrong, to show them just how much literature indirectly or directly impacted them. Literature was not meant to be simply a play thing but a thing to learn from as well, it had impacted many people over the course of time, a lot of the time through their leaders who were well read and educated in literary works and ideas.   
  
She rolled over onto her side once more, pulling the blankets tightly around with her, making them keep her comfort no matter how much they refused to help. Sighing she raised her hand and turned on her light letting the lamp bathe the room in a cool yellow color starkly contrasting the night sky. Opening her eyes she began to let her hand rummage on top her nightstand looking for a spare notebook and a pencil, or pen which she found with ease after knocking over only one object which she swore to herself she would pick up later, but in her state of exhaustion she refused to do so.   
  
Quietly she sat up and closed her eyes for a moment letting peace fall on her for a moment, before opening them. She bowed her head down letting bangs hang loosely over her face hiding it from the shadows that watched her. Thumbing through the pages of her previous writings she found a few blank pages one after the other, uncapped her pen and put the tip to the paper beginning to let it dance the ideas from her mind rolling freely out and making themselves concrete perceptions on the paper. The days, years, events, and experiences came out in her writings. All or most of her thoughts expressing her inner self, her utmost desires and opinions however controversial or dramatic. They all seemed to spill out into her writing making herself hidden within the writings.   
  
By putting her thoughts into existence she eased her own mind and released all her pent up being that she had refused to be let out during the days courses which would have made them known unto others.   
  
She never shared her writings. If she did she would be like an open book to them if they knew how to interpret things. The pages of her writings subtly concealed her soul. Each and every element in her stories contained a part of her, and her hopes, dreams, and darkest fears. For all she cared she could be writing at a kindergarten level, but she was writing, expressing herself, letting her be her, and that's all she truly wanted to do.   
  
With her jolt of inspiration fading she recapped her pen, and closed her notebook laying both on the nightstand beside her lamp. Yawning she ran her hand down her face drawing it down, letting it put an end to the evenings events. Proceeding that she reached over and turned her light off. Now content she settled herself back into the fold of her bed, and drifted off to a wonderful now peaceful sleep. She'd have to start carrying one around more often, a notebook, even if only to keep her ideas from cluttering her head, and the eventual loss of them all together, or her sanity.   
  
How she wished she could be accepted as a writer, by those dear to her, but none of them seemed to understand. Tommorrow always held the hope they would, and it was a hope she liked having however naive and misguided it might be. Maybe they would finally stop looking over her shoulder and reading aloud as she wrote, embarrasing her to no end, then criticizing on how foolish she was for what she chose to do.  
  
A/N: Should I add more?  
  
http://www.lngwp.20megsfree.com/index.html  



	2. p2

New One in Orange Attitude  
Chap: 2  
Email: rlw1985@hotmail.com, or lngwp@oz.zzn.com  
  
AN: This one might be a little out of whack with the first chapter, I apologize for that, I lost the hard copy. Feel free to point out any conflicts with the first chapter, and I'll try to fix things.  
  
She layed on the hard, yet warm carpeted floor of her apartment building and took in the smell of the paper in her nostrils, as she delighted herself in the sound of her pen on paper making her ideas come alive. It was amazing what simple little things could do to temporarily heal the wounds of an unforgiving world.  
  
As her words were deing etched onto paper, she used her free hand to turn on the cd player at her side. Often as the ideas started to dwindle, or the silence became overwhelming, but the emotions and the thrill of writing built a high within her she would use the music as an inspiration, or a distraction. It wasn't really that the music influenced her writings but more that it seemed alive, and listening, sharing in her writings. Music was her mortal saviour teaching her to be her own critic, while her partner was her muse, an inspiration for her twittlings which she would use the music to analyze.  
  
Her writings were beginning to make it out into the world now. While searching the net within the last couple of months she had come across a community of writers, who were like her just searching for an outlet, and writing for their own reasons, and nothing needed to be explained. Lately she had begun to converse with some of them, and through their gentle nudging had posted some of her work. Replies were few, and at first she was disappointed, but those who had reviewed had reviewed in a meaningful way. Her musings weren't simple mindless dribble to them, they could make a person think, and in doing so had made her fictional characters real. People could identify with her people, those fictional beings, and would refer to them as though they were real. That was the real treasure, knowing that your work brought people together, and made them think. For everything she had posted so far, there were two specific reviewers, whose real identities remained hidden to her, but they were her coconspirators, her people who would shove her over the edge to push her limits, her capabilitys as a writer. It was an honor to get reviews from them, and she would write stories on occasion specifically for them, guided by the comments they had previously made.   
  
Tonight she was writing for herself. Since finishing her longest piece, definately not her best, but her longest, about a month back she had been struggling with a writers block. Some people said you couldn't write anything with a writers' block, she had proved them wrong. Words didn't flow together, the lyrical rhythm which is normally came so freely from her her had been lost lately, her individuality lost within the crowds for a time, and just this morning she had recovered from her mental block. Ideas had begun to hit her that morning during a board meeting, and a missions analysis.  
  
The work place was not the best place to have your mind free up, so as soon as she could escape the dull conversations she bolted, leaving all her paperwork from her latest field mission in the office, and illiciting stares from fellow workers. Stares were worse as she ran out of the building, but she ignored them in their rudeness. Being able to write again though was thrilling, and she didn't like to admit it, but she had become a review junkie, somedays simply living off the comments others would make.  
  
There was only one person she truly wished to share her ideas with though. The likely hood of him being open to the idea however seemed slim. Sure he liked to read, but could the musings of an amateur grab his attention and keep it. He was known for reading famous works, nothing new, nothing minor. If you weren't dead or famous he probably wouldn't go anywhere near your stories. His opinion was one that she greatly valued. It had boosted her self esteem more then she would care to announce, or even count. Things had always been funny that way. A lot of people always said he was never there for her as her best friend. Oh how she would love to prove them wrong, and in her heart she had, but publicly she hadn't proven it, but in a way she had. What he said could on occassion make or break her, and those rare giddy moments she felt, that was him, her muse. He allowed her to write, without even purposefully doing so.  
  
Telling her muse exactly what he was to her would be the ultimate achievement, but for now silent adoration fit the hand. Sooner or later she would tell him, but she thought grinning down at her newly finished peace of work, 'It won't be until I'm really low on ammunition, or he says something first.'  
  



	3. p3

New One In Orange Attitude  
Chapter Three  
By:Reboo  
Email: rlw1985@hotmail.com or lngwp@oz.zzn.com  
  
Angrily she layed on her bed, her mood was conflicting with her ability to write, serving to frustrate her even more. It was useless to try and write when seh was ticked off, but she had tried anyway, and failed miserably. She flung the notebook across the room, watching it fly into the wall, and fall mercilessly to the floor, then threw her head back smack against the wall.   
  
It hurt, and she ignored it. The pain felt good, it was something real, something she could grasp, it was tangible, the words to put the emotions and ideas in her head eluded her, they simply would not form. Being so frustrated wasn't something she was used to having to deal with, so consequently mentally she couldn't handle it. It felt like she was trapped in her own body unable to move and wanting to run so badly. Why wouldn't the words come in substance.   
  
Reaching over she turned the music on as high as it would go. Maube the music would drown out her thoughts, or lack there of. It helped, but it didn't completely numb her. She was trapped, nothing was hwlping, emotions were substantial enough, but the words, the words, they wouldn't form. The urge to scream was overwhelming. Frustration was just such a hard thing to deal with.   
  
Talking, talking, maube that'll help, she thought heading for the phone. Maube it would allow her to get her emotions out, the writing could come later, but the frustration, the anger, she needed to get rid of it before it ate her. Her fingers automatically dialed the number of her best friend as she put the phone to her ear.   
  
"Hello," the man on the other side said picking up.   
  
"Hey," she said, rather perkily,m despite her emotions.   
  
"What is it?" her partner asked.   
  
Her mood dropped suddenly, she should have known it would have been useless to try and talk to him, between them all there was was shop talk now. Writing had distanced them, to an extent, her no longer being able to express her feelings, in a manner she once could have. She was no longer dependent on him either, his friendship was greatly welcomed, but as things were not necessary to the survival of her mind, or so she thought. "Nothing, nevermind," she said warily.   
  
"Wait you know you can talk to me," the young man said, but she had hung up the phone, and his words had fallen on deaf ears.   
  
The short attempt at a conversation had changed her mood, the anger and the frustrationwas gone, replaced with an unseemly indifference of sorts. She picked out the goriest movie in her collection, and put it in the VHS player, leaving the music on high. Her neighbors would most likely complain, but it didn't matter.   
  
Silently she walked over to the wall and gingerly picked up her notebook, what a fool she had been to throw it. It held everything dear to her in its pages. She picked the pen back upp off her bed, and took both belongings into the living roomm, and sprawled out on the couch in an attempt to write.   
  
Slowly the words became to come again, and she let herself be guided by the things around her. Everthing around her made a differnce in that piece of work, which she vowed never to post, finding it too personal, but also to horriedly written. It was a trial of its own. She had been thrown into the fire, and this was what had come out. She had struggled with the piece, its meaning and plot very obscure and hidden, a techinique used ealier on in her reports, if there was something you didn't want to blatantly tell, you hid it within the report very subtly, so it was there, just very, very obscure.   
  
Next time she went to sit down and write after tonight she vowed she'd have to make sure her head was clear, otherwise she might wind up killing all her characters again. The piece was definately an odd one, and hopefully not one to be repeated.   
  
A Side Note  
She sat stiff backed,and tried to arrange hr papers mangagably.  
They rose and fell, as she gave up  
and slumped, papers resting on her lap  
Fingers positioned awkwardly  
keys began to sound  
The story is written  
The tale is told  
and no one shall ever see  
  
A/N: I would really appreciate comments on The Side Note at the bottom there, I have to hand it into my lit teacher, so I would greatly appreciate the comments.  
  
4/2/02  
  



	4. 4

New One: In Orange Attitude  
Chap Four  
By: Reboo  
Email: rlw1985@hotmail.com or lngwp@oz.zzn.com  
  
She sat nimbly in the lawn chair on the patio overlooking the grandiose pool, and other condos. Relishing the simplistic joy of vacation. Honestly there was nothing wrong with the place, save that it was louder than her apartment.   
  
The condo was excellent actually, being a block from the ocean. It had two bedrooms, two full baths, a full kitchen. Needless to say it was better than home, and without the clutter. Kids though, boy did they ever make noise. In fact two of them were playng hockey on the tennis coursts, something which was for some unknown reason quite annoying. She wanted to squish them.   
  
The only reason she was on the back porch to begin with was that she had wanted to write, and something she could, in turn, stand to read over. That happened very rarely, but she hadn't picked up a pen with the intention of writing in a week and a half. Writing in a nd of itself was a Eutopia, but reading, well reading was the same, and that's what she'd been doing since two days before her blessed vacation.   
  
Vampires were the attention in her readings, suggested by an online pal who had disclosed nothing about the content of the books other than the fact that they were a series by a highly favored author of his, and that you needed a strong stomach in which to digest the words.   
  
After she had started reading it became quite apparent as to why. To some the books may have been overly gory, not for her. The sexual content level of the first book she had picked up though, man, that was a different story. You needed a strong stomach to swallow certain parts, which bordered hentai, which was laid out in a few, but definately enough parts of the book. The books as a whole were indeed very excellent, and she had devoured the entire series rather quickly. Not a detail was lost in her rush.   
  
The finishing of the books had left her on an all time high. Her thoughts would wander aimlessly back to the books, and her mind would form exquisite stories about the characters she felt she now knew so well.   
  
Her senses were drunk and she wanted no more than to quelch her thirst on another novel, but at this time, none existed.   
  
What a shame. The novles had taken her in, and had no let her go yet, and she relished the fact that that would most likely not happen for some time.   
  
This apparent revelation would not do. It could serve no lpurpose. Her mind was so locked up in these other creations that she simply couldn't bring herself to write. Quite a dissapointment. Courageously alone she had conquered her writer's blocks, but this euphoria she could not get past. Not to say that that was a bad thing.   
  
Such a pity, and such a surprise her current circumstances were. Never had anything had such a deep hold on her that she ceased to function in simple manners, like typing a report, doing the bills. It was quite annoying, yet intoxicating.   
  
What a wonderful world we had to allow us such great and wonderful treasures.   
  
With paper on lap, and pen in hand, she sat. How she longed to write. A simple poem would do, or even one splendidly done sentence, one with meaning. What came out was a short simple sentence with a powerful meaning, yet a very cryptic one.   
  
~When reaching for the sky, you shall fall, you would find it better instead to dig at the dirt beneath your feet.~   
  
It had come simply, and was, to a great extent, in her mind, true, most would beg to differ, but the one who mattered most, he probably would not, and would find reason and logic in the cryptical sentence.   
  
One thing they still had left was their debates, a good time to put this to him, and to watch him comment on her statement, unbeknownst to the fact that it was hers.   
  
She'd have to make a section for one-liners, but they did tend to lend themselves to longer stories, much longer stories than expected, if you would give them the time. By now she could probably fill a page if not more with one-liners scattered throughout her evergrowing notebook, which was in fact her second.   
  
It was always a wonderful day, and a sorrowful one when you completed a goal. Oh, what she wouldn't do now to have completed her ongoing story. It had come in a flash, and gone in a flash. Leaving her without inspiration to continue. That in itself was the cause of her grief, and her lack of intimacy with her current writings. It was a downer.   
  
Recrossing her legs, she gave a thoughtful look at the pool, maybe it could help loosen her up a little.   
  
A/N: Please forgive the usage of phrases native to my neck of the woods, as I looked over this I noticed I used quite a lot. And as always comments are greatly appreciated.   
  
4/16/02 


	5. 5

New One: In Orange Attitude  
Chap 5  
By: Reboo  
Email: rlw1985@hotmail.com or lngwp@oz.zzn.com  
  
She stared numbly forward. The sanctity of her writing place had been breached. Never before had it happened. All the eyes around her seemed to be staring at her, demeaning her, smiting her.   
  
The place in which her ideas flowed best was odd, and reassuring, but now only serving to have people cast the evil eye against her. How very strange that the one place you assume not to be judged, you would be judged the most.   
  
Church was indeed a very strange place. Having been raised Catholic she knew the ceremonies, and the law of the land. Yet only hate seemed to radiate from the people here now. In her childhood this had been a safe haven. Everyone gathered here to escape the persecution of the Alliance. Now it seemed so wrong to sit within these walls. She could read and listen to the bible on her own.   
  
Slowly, and surely she left the service with a great determination. They were supposed to be friendly, not condemning. Things had definately changed a lot. The preacher was good for once, and the people instead of being friendly were mean. Shielding her eyes she walked outside. Where to go, what to do? She'd need to find a new writing spot. The public gardens would do for now. It was a calming place. That's why she had originally gone back to church on those Saturday afternoons, now the place just seemed hostile.   
  
Gardens though, they were beautiful, and calm, just the atmosphere she needed. Today was bright and warm, the plaza and side streets bustling. The perfect place and time to write, and admire the city. The calmness of society would now need to lend her its inspiration.   
  
A/N: I have nothing against Catholics by the way, I just know what its like to go back to church after being out for a while, and the people are hostile let me tell you. The character you're reading about, her national religion is Catholic, so I'm just going with the flow.   
  
4/21/02 


	6. 6

New One: In Orange Attitude  
Part #6  
By: Reboo  
  
People said it was easier to write on an emotional high, and as she looked at the paper in front of her she could do nothing but agree. The writing was dristically different however. That which could have been written well was written poorly.   
  
Her normally clear, lyrical ideas were no more, replaced instead by choppy sticky sentences. Feelings could cloud what she had wanted to do so well. Things had come out marred and lacking of her normal finesse. The idea of writing like this was easier but the work it produced was worse for wear.   
  
She silently shook her head, if she wrote like this again those pieces would never see the light of day, but she would make equally sure they didn't see the light of flames either.   
  
People could be so misleading in their ideas, that was how she had come to write like this. Following simply a writing philosophy so many put out into the world. Thte most misleading though, like this were often the most followed. She was proof of that, but only to an extent. You could just look at history to see how people followed misguided ideas. The recent and distant past would show that things simply didn't change in the human mind with reguard to following.   
  
Maube that was where all the bad, lazily written material on the net came from. Maybe the authors all followed the same philosophy, not truly getting the entire story line. Who knew? Not her, that was for sure.   
  
In fact the amount of bad pieces out there was increasing at an alarmingly fast pace. Not that she could stop it. There were more bad pieces of work than even half way decent ones. The content of the stories, well lets not even go there. It's all focused on the same stuff,over and over, stuff she wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.   
  
Now mind you if her superiors ever found out about this shee'd get a stern yelling at for being discriminatory. she wasn't discriminatory, she just didn't want someone elses ideas being constantly flung in her face, especially this stuff. There was only so much you could take after all. It wasn't as though she forced her opinions on others, and in return she liked the same nicities granted to her.   
  
She yawned and stretched, today had been a long day. A very trying one to be exact, and after having completed her writing to get everything out of her head, and simply to keep it working she felt exhausted. During the end of the story she always felt like it was dragging out incorrectly. Tonight had been no different except the entire piece was pitiful, and now her entire night felt like it had dragged out for too long.   
  
Yawning again she leaned back intending to shut her eyes for only a few moments but instead she fell asleep.  
  
5/3/02  



	7. 7

New One: In Orange Attitude  
Part #7  
By: Reboo  
  
She stared at the paper thoroughly annoyed with herself. She needed a plot line, something she could put on paper, something tangible. Normally the trouble with this could be avoided, but she wanted to write a long story, where if she hit a log in the middle of the road she would have a guideline to help her along.  
  
Only once before had she tried this way of beginning a story. The last one had been dropped, much to other's annoyance. Conquering the idea of an original was the challenge this time. For some reason originals were harder to write. Who knew why. It was plaguing her though, the inability to write completely anew without the guideline of others imaginations. Freshness was what she was looking for. Her stories tended to be allegorical, no matter how hard they were to pick out, and writing them was rather hard, let alone on a plan, which she was attempting, it seemed impossible.  
  
Maybe some things were for other people. She was an impulse writer. She needed the freshness, and the dustiness of society to cause her to write. Again, maybe the juices just weren't flowing tongiht. In writing not all things came easy, it wasn't an exact science like math. Settings could mean everything to the atmosphere of a piece. A bad day could mean lots of death, and gore, a happy day a sugary sweet piece. It all depended on, well quite plainly everything.   
  
Tonight might not be the time to try it, who knew? Sometimes a simple page would take her an hour to write. The right atmosphere was needed, and apparently tonights just wasn't it so far.   
  
A/N: In answer to questions yes the books I was talking about were Anne Rice's, and yes I do enjoy writing this quite alot, especially when I'm not asked to by teachers to help other students figure out how to do things. And in correspondence with chap 5 I noticed something in church the people that stray for a really long time are welcomed back warmly, and the regulars who are like minutes late will get the evil eye, it was really disturbing, mostly because I was the one coming in late. Oh yeah, I might be switching this to a different name soon, because I'm gonna have to switch notebooks my 200 sheet one is almost full.   
  
5/5/02  
  



	8. 8

A/N: I was fine when I originally wrote this but when I put it to notepad I was rather angry at myself for something, it shouldn't be much changed though.   
  
New One: In Orange Attitude  
Part: 8  
By: Reboo   
  
She fingered her notebook as she smiled at it, a mixture of glee and sorrow playing on her lips. It was finished, every last page written on. The orange covered spiral book was full. A time to rejoice in her accomplishments and a time to sorrow in the loss of her constant companion for the past fouur months and eighteen days.   
  
A new one was all lined up to use, sporting a nice new crisp flat blue cover and clean white lined pages untouched by pen or pencil and unbent by the constant wear and constrains oh her pocket on her thigh. She had debated picking up another orange one when she had noticed the number of pages left unwritten diminishing but had decided against another notebook of the same color after five minutes of debating with herself in the store. It would symbolize a new plateau in her writing, and understanding with herself that she had progressed and was becoming regularly better.   
  
This was her true first notebook though, the one originally bought for the sole purpose of her writing, and contained only that.   
  
Gingerly she opened the cover and began to thumb through its pages ignoring the beckoning of the new blue attitude. The first thing there was the ninth chapter in her longest story. She couldn't help but smirk at that, that entire story seemed so long ago now.   
  
As she continued onward she found stories long forgotten, finished or partial in completion. Not knowing why she reread some of them having absolutely no recollection of ever writing them but knowing for a fact that she had. After that first day when one of her friends had sneered at her writings she'd never let anyone else touch her precious notebook.   
  
So many things with such a range of raw imagination displayed in them. From the beginning to the end the stories got better, minus the one's she'd obviously written to get over a writer's block and then tried thoroughly to gorget, which she had suceeded at. Other stories not so bad were spread throughout. Probably good enough to get put to the public, but would most likely never see the light of day.   
  
Sighing she shut the cover and placed the orange notebook on her bedstand, and warily looked at its blue replacement a ways across the room. It was like starting completely a new, like losing her best friend in betrayal to find another. Most likely the book would never be forgotten. It was her first and her most special.   
  
Slowly she got up from her bed and walked to the table containing a new beginning and sat down at the lone chair accompanying the table and stared at it.   
  
She was almost afraid to touch it, a silly notion, but it felt like by giving in to the new she'd be plunged in head first without a restraint, without something to look back on and help her, it was a scary idea.   
  
Carefully she took the new item and opened the cover then fished around for her favorite pen in her pcoket, now completely almost out of ink due to over use, and set out to write down the ideas trapped within her mind. It always annoyed her when she could run great things through her head and then when it came to putting it onto paper her mind would blank. Today she was intent on not letting that happen.  
  
5/13/02  
  



	9. 9

New One: In Orange Attitude  
chapt 9  
  
~No one can have to masters for they will be prejudice, in favor of one, and hating the other, so in the end they must have none, or resign to choose one wholy.~  
-r.l.w.   
  
She looked sadly at the mountain of reports she was supposed to read, there wasn't that many of them really, but still the stmosphere wasn't one for getting any work done, of any kind. It was too cozy, and yet too cold at the same time with the wind briskly blowing through the room. Maybe she'd never get it done, and yet it was all do in two days. Things were just very distracting. Her notebook was calling to her, and she was dying to write in it, yet knew she had work that needed to be done.   
  
She sighed and rested her head in her hands for a moment before standing and resigning to check her email. She was procrastinating, and she knew it, but for the first time she didn't care that much at all, she just could not bring herself to move, and think in a manner constituting one of work. There were also her stories, jumbled and half completed, either stored on her computer, or the first eigth of her new notebook, or at length in her mind. She hadn't really done as much in this blue one, as she had in the other. Maybe it was more of a lack of respect for it on her part. Being her second one and all it couldn't quite compare to the first, the orginal journey set out before her.   
  
She entered her email, and scrolled around. It was junk mail here, and junk mail there. Two emails caught her eye however, they were late reviews for two of her stories, which ones she didn't know just yet. Both stories hadn't been worked on for a while, she just couldn't find the right inspiration for them, or the right place to write them in. As previously noted she was an impulse writer, whose surroundings dictated everything. Working on stories among people she didn't know, and writing themwhe she was the only person around were her favorite places/times to do so.   
  
Being plopped down in odd places, in odd situations involving people she didn't know tended to let her create her best works. Maybe that was why she hadn't succeeded in writing anything lately. A lack of newness was aboundant right now. Everything recently written by her had been scrapped since she felt that under better circumstances she could've done a much better job.   
  
That's why these two emails were such a surprise, nothing new had been posted any time recent. Curious as to what they said she opened the emails and began to read. The first contained a review on her first attempt at humor. Apparently the person rather liked it, especially her mixing of seriousness with the humor. Her technique was what the person appeared to like most. Yawning she opened the second one, her beaming smile brightening as she read on. The person liked her adventure, but didn't care for the way she modeled the characters. How could you like the story, and not the characters, any of them, was it even possible? So except for the rather honest, yet annoying review she was rather happy, not that she truly minded the criticism, it was good to get some every once in a while, but that last one bordered on flaming   
  
By now she was zoning out, her mind drifting off, and her body nodding into a sleep with which she was only awakened from when her head bobbed. Turning off the computer she moved and sat herself in front of her notebook. Quite frankly she liked the Orange one better, it seemed to suit her better, and was easier to write in.  
  
With the blue attitude it was ever so much harder to write in, and so far that evening she hadn't bothered to write at all. Tonight she was simply to tired, and the atmosphere wasn't right for writing anyway. Most assuredly she'd fall asleep without a second thought, and that's what she did, and she slept soundlessly minus the nagging in the back of her brain telling her that she should have written or atleast done some of her work.   
  
A/N: I actually stuggled to write the end of this, I was falling asleep out on the rocks where I was, but atleast I didn't fall over the ege and into the water.  
  



	10. 10

New One: In Orange Attitude  
Part: 10  
Author: Reboo  
  
She needed a topic, something, anything really. At one point she had been able to stare at a notebook and writte. No more, those days were over. Maybe the philosophy of animism was correct. Perhaps her orange notebook had a good kharma, and this blue one in front of her a hindering one. She shook her head and allowed her bangs to fall back into her face. At one point those bangs had obscured her vision, but gradually she had come to learn to see almost through them, and to use them to her advantage. This notebook that she was trying to use was so new. Breaking it in would probably be what was needed for her adjusment to it, and its ruffish cleanliness compared to the old one.   
  
At least things were going better on other fronts. Her writing was becoming more widely known, not popular, but reaching more people at the least. More reviews were coming in and even her forgotten things were picking up more reviews. That in itself was a cause for excitement. Something even more exciting however were the requests for her writings. A couple of her short stories were getting published. It was exciting, so very exciting. People had even started to bookmark her webpage, and some had even signed admitting to the fact that they were there.   
  
Her friends, whether they could be called true or not, had not discovered her published works. That was probably luck on her part, but she had been using an alias in conjunction with her pieces. If they ever found her poems they would try and throw her into a physce ward. "You've been through a lot," they'd say, "Just take a break and everything will be fine."   
  
Poems with and emphasis on death were her speciality, and they tended to gain odd reviews from people who wouldn't or couldn't quuite grasp what she was trying to express. Death was her latest passion, the idea and the exacting of it, but never really the end result. Whatever was on the other side was on the other side, and you wouldn't know that until you completely crossed over.  
  
She yawned and cracked her neck in an attempt to stretch it out. That blue notebook was such a problem. For sure it wasn't the time or place that was hindering her, she had written at the same time of day in the same spot before. She should've been able to write.   
  
All the success as of late made her feel the rush, or maybe simply just the need to continue to write, but to do it faster and better at the same time. That was contributing to the problem, she was almost certain it was. It was the cause of a little bit of stress. One fic had already been ditched in an attempt to save her midn. She needed less to think about and then maybe it would come clearer.  
  
6/16/02  
  
A/N: Hmmmmmmmmm, I don't know about the end of this it seems a little abrupt, but let me know what you think. 


	11. 11

New One: In Orange Attitude Chapter: 11(I think that's right, but I've lost count) By: reboo  
  
A/N: Sorry this is so short, these things are turning out to be more like journal entries, which I suppose, all in all, they are to an extent.  
  
I am stagnant in my defilement of work, and coworkers[friends] all the same right now. Things about me have changed indefinitely recently. If at a previous moment considered silent, now [I am] mute. Recent events have spurred an indefinable reorganizing of myself.  
  
For what feels like years, but in actuality only one month I wasn't able to force myself into writing, and now the thoughts come unbidden to my attention, and it requires all [my] self-control to keep from sitting and writing, ignoring duties. Envious of those who without fault follow their desires am I. they lead the true life. Since the witnessing and causing of deaths [on my part] the military seemed correct, and was what my heart wanted.  
  
Now that things have quieted down, my heart is changing, not my ideals or beliefs, or morals, truly not me, instead my inner child is being released, and showing me what I want to do, who I want to become.  
  
Just yesterday the neighbor's daughter found herself wandering though my apartment, and stumbled upon my art portfolio, something I didn't even realize still existed. that caused a re-lighting of the spark within me for my visual art. I've started up with it again, and now find myself terminally lost for a conversation with people I used to consider friends, and I find the silence even more unbearable, so unusual a sensation for me.  
  
My interests have changed, and have led me to initiate a search for someone to teach me, have my skills as I once did, and find myself still learning. A balance is needed, an inner sanctum between the three mes where harmony should and could exist, is what my balance would be. Three things shape me. Right now my desire for art, and literature has conquered and temporarily destroyed my firm foundation of a military career, but not my demeanor.  
  
Soon I'm going to ask for a leave of absence, and if not received I will sadly enough quit. It would mean the loss of a job to experience what my heart thinks life should be, and my mind battles constantly on whether or not being bereft of job is worth it. Right now, I think it is, call me spontaneously crazy at the moment. The people of the office would react with complete and utter surprise if it came to me quitting, and I yearn for a glimpse of what they might do and what they might say, although in the end I know I truly wouldn't want to. The things they would say, the rude comments, and dissing gestures would only make me mad, and I in my mind would be forced to render them at all levels, wrong.  
  
Until all of me is tamed I can't function correctly. I need to travel, sketch, explore and become what I was never given the chance to be.  
  
Ironic life is. However if it were any different it wouldn't make the journey as challenging, and in the end worth it all. 


	12. 12computer disk got reformatted

New One: In Orange Attitude part 12  
  
I have found in recent months, my drawn out decision to quit to be correct for me. I could not willing give up what I had found, and I could not willingly go back to being someone who lacks what I have gained. My vision is now even more circumspect then it was in my military career. It's sad, me having to do what I did. They found me too important to give leave to for as long as I had requested, a stupid mistake on their part I believe, they forced me into my last chance to acquire self knowledge and in a way gain my true soul back.  
  
Before I left, I discovered with much frustration at the time, that I in all my newly found arrogance had lost what made my writing unique. I had a style all my own, and I still don't remember exactly when I realized it had left, all I know is that it had. I think that was really my final straw, being unable to accomplish what my heart most desired, it's been something I've always done. I can't betray my heart; I can hide it, but never betray it.  
  
People say it's my weakness. They didn't see my heart when I decided to quit though, but they did not know who I was, let alone what I was doing behind the scenes. Since I've left however, it's been so much better for me; I'm starting to regain it, my uniqueness, my style. It's a wonderful feeling most people probably never experience in their lifetimes.  
  
My surroundings definitely have something to do with my recuperation if you can call it that. Originally space had been my intended destination, but I've decided to put it off for a while, get the hard core original and classic before breaking off into the neo once more. The northern part of the US can be beautiful, despite the wars that have wreaked havoc upon its land. I'm smiling as I'm thinking and I can't help but do it. For once in my life I actually got to play, I raked the leaves covering my backyard up into a pile, and jumped into them. Its amazing, the giddy childish fun you can have in such a simple manor. People get away from that now. Somehow this northern region brings you back to your roots, back to yourself. It doesn't hide from you heartaches and your past and doesn't keep trials from coming, but it makes you discover something that you've always wanted to be. I suppose what the north has told me is that I've always wanted to be a child, maybe because I was never given the chance.  
  
Like I said, my writing is beginning to flourish again, especially in its originality, and my drawings, my visual arts they're coming along well too. Its amazing how interlocked writing, and experimenting in visuals actually is. My focus is mostly simple things, and empty things, or pictures of mothers with their children, or newborn baby. The latter displays unwanted understanding and innocence all in one, something that is normally combined, but not seen. The former for me shows emptiness, shows the lack of things, the way things are, but maybe shouldn't be. Often enough I catch myself drawing an empty rocking chair and then later writing a coinciding story. Odd, strange, yet strangely familiar all the same.  
  
I'm happy here, right now, I truly believe I am. Often seen as lonely people misinterpret something as of yet that has not been changed, perhaps someday. As long as my thoughts are focused then silence is not a problem; it's when the memories, and the fondness of something else, or someone sinks in that my mind begins to wander. Possibly not for long however, not if I have my way.  
  
a/n: I apologize for the shortness, I haven't touched this in a really long time, and for some strange reason wanted to pick it back up again. I sort of lost track, and couldn't find my hardcopies for reference, so I doubly apologize if this is completely off. 


	13. 13

Everything's caught up with me, i'm normally right on top of things, but i guess owrk and play caught up a little too much. I'm doing the graphicss designs for the local paper, and I've been working on a pastel based on and featuring one of my poems. Most people probably won't even know what it is. I seem to do a lot of those drawings.   
  
Sadly enough my writing has been in spurts as well. I don't know what others do when they get sick, but I can tell you what I do, I fight the fact, and then when I can't anymore I go and I lay down in a dark room, and play the music so it's like I'm in a theater. My head throbs to the beat, but I like it that way, its actually helps. My writings come that way too, ironically enough, and I write in the dark, mind you things are very hard to decipher after that, but oh well.  
  
Occasionally I think I've lost my mind. people complain about my solitary status, quite frankly I appreciate it though. Years in hustle and bustle can teach you to appreciate the smaller things. Occasionally a friend or two will call. I've done tatoo designs for two of them. They're rather good, that may be a bit boastful but I like them, a whole lot better than some of the other stuff I've done anyway. It was a pair of doves, and a fairy. My friend is constantly telling me that my original faeries are the best. They're all original, but I can't seem to win that battle. The computer screen on the other side of the room has finally gone black, casting the room into full blackness as well.  
  
Headaches and throbbing necks are the worst, just for the record. Learning back into the cushions is nice, i'd rather have someone's face to see at the moment though. Him, to be exact. He won't talk to me, I didn't really think he would, i'm wiating for more on his part, but I know it won't come. Thus my insanity is proven even more. Laughing, and beginning to yawn, I pull the covers up to my chin. I need sleep I really do, but for some reason it doesn't want to come. Not to me anyway... it never does. I've been up for over forty hours straight, I'm praying sleep will claim me now, prayers are what I have left. I don't trust doctors, they've killed too many, more than any soldier I know anyway. 


	14. 14

She rubbed her temples fruitlessly in an attempt to rid herself of her immense frustration, and bit back a scream. A year, a year sheÕd spent without her art, her writing and visual dabblings, all of it. How sheÕd desired to come back to this place, to sit, to write, to focus on a dream thrown aside.   
  
Some people, some situations made it completely impossible to write, to actually focus, sit down and do something recreational besides sleep. When the battlefield had called sheÕd gone. She had fought the valiant fight and yet again her side gained victory, although not without its casualties and injuries. One injury specifically was sitting propped up regally on her couch, long hair over the back of it. For the life of her she couldnÕt figure out why heÕd come back with her. It was as if their previous roles were currently reversed. She sighed, burying her head in her empty paper and turned all thoughts to the man.  
  
It was amazing really, given her age and what sheÕd been through that in the romantic area sheÕd never experimented. Oh sheÕd read dirty things on occasion, never looked at the pictures though. She was acutely aware however of the fact the she loved the man in front of her, and almost as sure that he loved her back, although the two of them had never spoken on the subject in regards to themselves. It was almost as if given their lifestyles and background they were too reserved to act upon their emotions or on a more basic level even their physical wants.   
  
Her mind was wandering quite a bit, and her eyes turned to focus on the cast enveloping the manÕs leg. When she had lost her ability to write, her ability to form a coherent and cohesive creative idea, she didnÕt know. Her style, her uniqueness, sheÕd lost that too. It was simply gone. In fact she felt like sheÕd lost who she was or rather a piece of her. If it hadnÕt been for him though she probably would have lost herself. HeÕd grounded her, kept her self aware, something sheÕd been relying on her writing to do. She didnÕt honestly know what sheÕd do without him.  
  
After her first posting in the longest time the people she used to depend on for reviews she discovered had left, just like her, only she returned. They had no recent writings, no readings, hadnÕt reviewed, and as she had looked at the screen, she had become more and more disheartened, and had begun to wonder when she had become so dependent on others thoughts on her writings. At the beginning, when she had first started to write, it was purely for herself, the reviews, they had meant nothing to her, except suggestions for things to do, but overtime she supposed she had come to thrive on the reviews, and find herself envious of others. That was simply not her. She shook her head, breaking her train of thought, and dead stare at the cast, and was mildly surprised when the man began to speak.  
  
ÒWould you care to join me? he asked smoothly, knowing full well heÕd caught her off guard, but that she was in a slump and could use some help.  
  
ÒSure,Ó she responded, ÒIÕll just go grab us some refreshments first.Ó She winked and headed to the cabinet for some liquor. It wasnÕt as if she was succeeding in anything anyway. And as she made her way back towards the living room a strange thought struck her. They were probably the only two people in the world who drank they liquor warm. How odd. 


End file.
